Nelipot
by Pholo
Summary: Merlin's a sorcerer, yes, and doesn't know how to tell Arthur. We all know that much. But things really heat up when Arthur himself becomes a sorcerer, and doesn't know how to tell Merlin.
1. Scibility

When he did finally come across a spell, his fingers were coated with the dust and grime of Gaius' old shelves, and when Arthur opened the book, he did so with sweaty palms. He rubbed his dusty hands against the back of his tunic, then spread the yellowed pages down until he could make out a poor assortment of runes-ones he did not recognize-huddled together against the corner of a page. Arthur clapped the book closed, squashed down a hiccup of nausea, and stumbled from Gaius' quarters. He did not want to be caught by the physician, or Merlin. How could he possibly explain himself?

There was, of course, an explanation on the page, as to what the spell entailed. Arthur read the directions through again and again, once back in his own, personal rooms. The spell seemed simple enough, at least to read. He wasn't sure, though. Arthur ran a hand over the half-formed stubble on his cheeks, concentration apparent on his face as he brought the book closer to his nose.

Arthur called for a servant to bring up a pot of water.

He'd demanded this particular favor of a woman, one with a poorly-knit apron ribbon-ed round her waist. She'd been the first maid Arthur had seen. This woman had nodded at him when he'd called her aside, and did not ask any questions. He was sure she'd be of valued use. Thus, Arthur was surprised when Merlin, not she, was the one to shlep up the water pot.

Arthur shoved the book under his blankets and managed to spread himself out over his bed before the door to his chambers popped open. He'd been fortunate enough to have recognized the uneven clip clap of Merlin's-unusual-footfall, as his manservant had come down the hall, and was ready to receive him by the time the man himself hobbled over the threshold.

"Water in a pot?" Merlin scolded him. He pushed the door closed behind him with a small kick of the foot. "What, trying to cook again, are we?"

"Nothing of the sort, I assure you," Arthur said. He scooted the book another five centimeters further, against the musty heart of his blanket cocoon.

When Merlin did not move, Arthur coughed at him pointedly.

"Set that down on the center of the rug, then," he ordered. The maid must have assumed that his personal servant had been meant when Arthur demanded his favor, although for what reason, he was still unsure.

Merlin dragged himself forward. The water sloshed against the walls of the pot, and the wiry muscles of his arms stood out as he moved. "You're not going to tell me what you're planning, then? With this…" he lurched forward, then caught himself, "water?"

"Not a chance."

Merlin's smile was a strained one. "You sadistic prat," he accused him. "I've already lugged this pot up the stairs…"

Merlin heaved the pot another handful of lurches forward, then curled himself down against the floor to arrange the enormous thing on the center of the rug. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the edge of his tunic as he straightened.

"Thanks for the help," he grumbled.

"You're a servant, Merlin," Arthur reminded him casually, and crossed his legs over the blankets. By this point he'd busied himself with a small apple he'd had sat on his bedside, and tossed the thing to and fro between his hands as he continued; "princes do not help servants."

"What about friends, then?"

"On special occasions," Arthur assured him dryly.

Merlin's smile was more of a smirk, now. He raised his arms. "Not special enough for you, am I?"

"You're dismissed," Arthur announced, although there was a grin on his face. When Merlin remained where he was, he thrust the apple at him. "Go on, then," he chided. The apple tumbled to the floor.

Merlin mumbled something as he left that was probably unkind. The door closed behind him, and Arthur let the tension pop from his shoulders as he rolled them backward, then forward. He sagged against the bed with a groan.

Three minutes later, he was situated on the floor, cross-legged before the pot. Arthur rubbed a hand over his face again, then mustered up his courage and turned open Gaius' tea book to the designated page.

Arthur decided to get things over with. He read through the phrase one more, crucial time, then pressed his hand to one side of the pot.

"Onhaete pa water," he demanded, fingers outstretched now so that the pads brushed the metal beneath them.

There was a noise unlike any other, like the sound of a foot with pins and needles. The smell of copper scalded through the atmosphere like acid, and sizzled away a small assembly of Arthur's royal chin hairs. The carpet seemed to become brighter of hue as Arthur narrowed his eyes at the pot. And suddenly, as though from nowhere at all-

-Absolutely nothing happened.

There was such a look of such 'thank-the-gods' on Arthur's face that his very pores reeked of relief. The man reached over, snatched up Gaius' book with a practiced motion, and made to stand. "Well," he said, and was pleased, "looks like there's nothing to worry about after all." Arthur tossed the book at his bed, and the thing plopped against the wall of his linen comforters. He sat himself, and reclined once more over the mattress.

And that's when the water started to boil.

Slowly, Arthur came to recognize the pop of heated water, and the gurgled half-hiss of steam. He did not move, however. For a long, heavy moment, he could not bring his muscles to unclench. Sluggish, he rolled himself off the bed and onto the flats of his feet.

Arthur stumbled towards the pot, and was afraid.

Sure enough, water foamed up from the bowels of the pot, and spewed an angry froth across the liquid's surface. The noise was pleasant. Water popped up, here and there, to spot the carpet. Arthur could not contain himself, suddenly, and when he thrust his foot out at the pot, he did so with much vigor. There was a gasp of heat and vapor, and the pot toppled to one side. Water surged forward, drunkenly, to darken the rug. The stain seeped forward, and Arthur's foot hurt.

Arthur bundled himself to the floor.

He retched to himself, over the next several minutes, as the water began to dry.

* * *

Aha, look! Chapter one's done, finally. Goodness gracious. I wanted to see what Arthur would do, should he be forced to 'walk around in Merlin's shoes' for a while, so ah, here you are, then. Arthur's a sorcerer. You'll notice that I talk a lot about shoes, usually Merlin's; worn shoes supposedly symbolize hardships and struggles. Shoooes glorious shooooes.

Tips? Thoughts? A good pun? I'd love a review, should you have the time! Happy Wednesday.


	2. Galimatias

He'd become rather _concerned_ a week prior, when he'd burned a hand print through the hall table.  
He, Gwaine, and several other knights had been positioned round a throne room table before their conversation had became fervent, and Arthur's hand had, consequently, begun to sink through the wood of the table.  
"Well," Gwaine had mused, and clapped his hand on Arthur's shoulder like he was his brother and not his superior, "at least no one will ever forget where you sit again, sire." He gestured to the hand print on the table, a perfect, molten mould of Arthur's hand, and still red with heat.  
Arthur felt his cheeks burn as hot as the table. He uncurled his knotted fingers to study the calluses on his palms.  
His hands rumbled against him when he patted them down against his chest.  
"I've been possessed," he decided.  
Gwaine and the others did not comment, so Arthur continued; "I'll have council with my father. We'll find a way to undo this."  
"I suppose you won't want anyone to know of this, then?" Gwaine lowered his arms, to poke at the crust of Arthur's hand print. Arthur glared at him, and Gwaine removed his own hand from the print to slap the untouched portion of the table, as though for reassurance. He then tucked the both of his hands neatly behind his back, and hummed.  
Arthur addressed the small assembly, and treated each member of the crowd to a very, very stern look, so as to communicate his seriousness on the matter: "no one shall mention this. Understood?"  
He'd then heaved himself up from the table, and turned to push his way through the throne room doors.  
He did not, actually, have council with his father, however.  
He wasn't sure why. Not then, anyway.  
Arthur ordered that portion of the table remade, and lied to the builders about the origins of the angry, reddened blemish. Of course, to encourage their compliance, Arthur also treated each to a hefty sum of coins.  
All was well until, as he harrumphed his way down hallway some days later-after an argument with his father-a poorly-clad chambermaid approached him.  
"Sire," the ragged lady began. She was nervous-Arthur could tell by the hunched position of her shoulders-and when she bowed to him, the gesture was more of a hiccup of the head.  
"I'm sorry to bother you, but, um," she continued, and pointed to his shoulder: "you appear to be on fire."  
Arthur turned his head to stare at his upper arm, which had, actually, caught fire.  
"Ah," Arthur said, and was confused. The heat did not bother him personally, but had begun to char his clothes. The hall reeked of smolder, and the stench of his burned tunic. "You're very right."  
"Should I, ah, do something?" the maid prompted.  
"Oh, no," Arthur assured her, "no, that's fine." He slapped down the fire along his arm, and the fat flames seemed to pass around the flats of his fingertips. There was no pain when he dug his hand around the flesh of his shoulder, as the flesh turned pale under the pressure of his touch. Presently, the fire began to recede under his palm, and finally crumble away with a few, black patches of his new tunic, to pepper the floor.  
The charred smell still clung to his nostrils, and Arthur scratched his nose. His fingers were cool to the touch.  
"Sire?" the lady asked, slowly.  
Arthur dug around through his pockets. His fingers closed around a loose pile of change-a bundle he'd earned over a game of dice-and pressed the wad of coins to the maid's palm. "Not a word," he ordered her.  
She stared, reluctantly unclenched the muscles of her hands, and collected the coins with a gentle touch.  
"You're sure you're all right, sire?" she asked of him, as she counted out, and then pocketed the change.  
"Not a word," he demanded over his shoulder-the muscle there now bare and caked with soot, though otherwise unharmed-as he stumbled over his own feet. He'd thought that things would stop, then.  
He'd been wrong.  
Again and again, heat rushed up to flush against the pads of his fingers, until he could clap them on a wall and watch the wood there peel away under his hands. He could no longer deny, of course, that something was, ah, wrong.  
Arthur consulted Gaius about a supposed fever, but Gaius assured him that he was well. When the physician excused himself to see to a flu-stricken lady, Arthur had made for the bookshelves. He wasn't sure how he knew there was a spell, somewhere between the musty pages of the old man's books, and yet…  
He had to be certain.  
Twenty minutes later, and a week after his first hand print, there he was, still on the floor of his chambers, book on the bed, pot of water and mental faculties overturned.  
The carpet had nearly dried, now.  
Oh gods. Oh gods, he was a sorcerer. Arthur lurched to one side and dry heaved again.  
He could bring a pot of water to boil. He could touch someone and-what? He could burn a hole through a wall. Burn a hole through a chest cavity. Oh gods, oh gods.  
He was a sorcerer.  
He could burn his flesh through a table. He could boil water with his bare hands.  
He's been possessed. Of course. That's what he said to Gwaine, right? He should go to his father. He should tell Uther. Uther would need to know about him, anyway, and his, erm, disease. He should go to his father.  
But Arthur couldn't.  
Limbs sweaty and knees a-wobble, Arthur arranged his arms and legs so as to hobble upwards. He waddled a tad back, then, and shuddered to a stop, to lean against the plushness of his royal bed. His chest heaved, and his ribs ached.  
Oh gods, he was a sorcerer.  
There was still a stain on the floor, but the coloration was subtle, as the water continued to dry. Merlin had really made sure to fill that pot. As his muscles unclenched, Arthur stowed the metal pot away under the bed. He was still unsure as to what to do with Gaius' tea book, however. Eventually, he pressed the thing under a lump of neatly-folded clothes, within the polished confines of his wardrobe.  
From that moment onward, Arthur lay on his bed. He couldn't think of anything productive to do with himself, besides talk to his father.  
He really, really ought to talk to his father.  
And yet, he did not budge.  
Arthur wondered why he was being so stubborn. He did not understand his own reluctance any more than he understood why he could suddenly burn his hands through walls. Over the last week, he had become an enemy unto himself.  
His friend waddled over, sometime later. He took his time, as was usual. Arthur's manservant was wont to dawdle, and when he did turn up, he oftentimes did so out of nowhere, from under a bed or some other unholy spot.  
There came, slowly, a heavy 'clomp', 'clomp' of feet. The noise cued poor Merlin's uneven approach, his boots so wadded up and old that they slapped against each stair he climbed. There was another small assembly of 'claps' and 'clops', and then Merlin himself popped his pin-head through the door to Arthur's chambers.  
"So," Merlin heaved out, as he shlepped his way through the door. Not even a 'sire' this time.  
Arthur said nothing.  
Merlin raised his hands.  
"How was your pot thing?" he asked.  
Arthur did not want to tell him. He'd known _that_ long before Merlin had pushed open his door. What would Merlin think of him? The two had become more closely-knit than one of his old linen sweaters, and Arthur didn't want to sour that relationship. He wasn't sure what would happen to their friendship, should he come to reveal himself and his condition, but Arthur did know that the consequences would be dire.  
Would Merlin tell his father?  
He shouldn't have ben the one to worry about that, Arthur reminded himself, as Arthur himself should have the guts to tell his father.  
He really ought to tell his father.  
There was a small 'um' from across the room, and Arthur remembered to peel his hands from his face before he started to pull out his eyes with his fingers.  
"My armor needs to be scrubbed," Arthur addressed his friend. He gestured at him to leave.  
"Already did that," Merlin said. He did not move.  
"It's dirty again."  
"Oh?" Merlin asked.  
Arthur ground his teeth together. "Merlin," he said.  
"Arthur," Merlin said.  
"My clothes are clean, then?"  
"Down to the royal toes of your royal socks."  
Arthur groaned. "Polish the wardrobe." He remembered the book, stored between shelves, and emended, "no, don't, actually."  
"Why not," Merlin mused. "Would you rather I, oh, I dunno', repainted the walls? Hand-knitted you another carpet out of troll skin?"  
"Merlin."  
"Or do you have some slivers of wood that I could use, perchance? To fashion you a new bed out of?" Merlin demanded. He raised his eyebrows, then, and continued: "forget the paint, actually. I could rebuild the walls altogether. With sand granules, and the sweat off my brow. Or would that be too strenuous a task for me to handle?"  
"Oh, for goodness' _sake_, Merlin." Arthur pressed a cushion to his face. The fabric smelled of dust and orange peels. "Would you shut up."  
Merlin frowned at him. Arthur could see a smudge of his face out of the corner of his left eye, should he concentrate hard enough. The man pawed at his own arms, as though to scratch them, or rub away an overcoat of dirt. The gesture was a nervous one.  
"I'm worried about you," Merlin warned, after a moment.  
Arthur did not remove the cushion. "Don't be," he ordered.  
"You've been _off_ lately."  
"And you've been a real nag." Arthur accused him, around his cushion. He wanted to punch something. "Why couldn't I have gotten a competent, compliant valet? Why did I have to be stuck with you?"  
His manservant only shrugged his weight onto his left side. "Do you want to tell me what's wrong?" he said. He reached down to scratch at his ankle. Arthur wondered when was the last time he'd gotten new boots.  
"No," Arthur replied, casually.  
Merlin shrugged. "Suit yourself," he grumbled. "Don't take your frustration out on me, then."  
"I'll do what I want."  
"Some friend you are. Anyway, do you need me to do anything, really?"  
"No, not really."  
"Then I'd like to go to bed, to be honest." He looked a touch squeamish now, like he thought he'd been too brash. He tugged at his neckerchief.  
Arthur didn't know why he hadn't ordered him off to rest already. That would have gotten rid of him sooner than some mundane task. He was not of the right mind to be logical, he decided. "Go on, then," he demanded.  
Merlin paused for a moment, as though tongue-tied. Then, suddenly, he performed a curt sort of half-nod, turned, and waddled from the room. His shoulders were tensed, his knees rigid with the weight of his body.  
"Actually," Arthur coughed, and paused.  
Merlin went taut, like a tensed rubber band. His back was to Arthur, but Arthur saw him roll his shoulders back. Slow as a slug, Merlin turned himself about to face him.  
"Yes?" he asked.  
Arthur stared at him. He plied a small wad of lint from a pillow next to him, and swallowed the ache from his throat.  
"I want to talk to you about something." Merlin opened his mouth, and Arthur continued suddenly, "about sorcery."  
Merlin's shoulders were up to his ears again, now. The skin of his face was pulled tight, pale as Arthur's sheets.  
Arthur continued to stare at him.  
Merlin seemed like he was about to topple over like a wax mannequin, so Arthur amended himself. "Look, Merlin," he said, cordially; "you're tired. We'll talk about this tomorrow."  
"You're sure?" Merlin managed.  
Arthur nodded. He leaned back onto his bed, and the mattress squeaked. "Yes, Merlin," he assured him. His hands roamed across the cushions. "Now get to bed."  
There came the same clomp, clomp of boots as Merlin hobbled away. Arthur played with the comforters between his fingers for a while. The sound of Merlin's footwear receded, and he was left to wallow on the orange peel-scented stuffiness of his bed.  
Merlin had seemed very scared for him, and then, suddenly, very scared _of_ him. Arthur's stomach rumbled, but not from hunger. He felt his gut throb as he made to move onto his side. The man moaned to himself and pressed his face between blankets. The comforter prickled the skin of his cheek.  
He really ought to talk to his father.  
He really ought to...

* * *

"Gaius."  
Gaius had busied himself over a bowl of gruel, his hands on his hips. His old face was furrowed, as was usual, and he heaved a mighty sniff as he turned around. Gaius folded his arms.  
"So there you are," he addressed Merlin, as the young man slid through the doorway. His tunic was mussed, his boots more worn than usual. "Where have you been? Surely Arthur hasn't kept you this late."  
Merlin did not answer right away. Firstly, he pressed the thick door closed, gave the wood a solid shove, and rolled his way around to lean his head against the stone of a side wall. He groaned, and slid a touch downward on his hands. "No, he didn't," he allowed, and Gaius raised his eyebrows. Merlin shrugged. "I took a walk around the castle."  
"A walk," Gaius repeated. He frowned. "Why?"  
Merlin swallowed.  
"I think Arthur knows," he managed.  
Gaius looked at him. He did not move to unfold his arms; rather, he bundled the material of his sleeves closer to his chest. "What has he done to make you think so?" he asked of him, at a careful pace.  
"He hasn't talked to me for a week, Gaius," Merlin groaned. "He seemed... I don't know what he seemed. But he wants to talk to me about sorcery, now."  
"Sorcery?"  
"Yes." Merlin pulled his hands up from the wall to clutch at his face. Dust tumbled down his cheeks from where he'd scraped chips of paint from the wall. "He's seemed scared to tell me something, Gaius, for a week now, and now he wants to talk to me about sorcery."  
Gaius slowly uncurled his hands from his sleeves, and undid his folded arms. The older man reached Merlin at length, and clapped a calloused hand on his shoulder.  
"Merlin," he told him.  
Merlin turned his chin up to look at him.  
"You mustn't worry about each small thing. I'm sure there's a reason for Arthur's actions. He's talked to you about sorcery before, has he not?"  
"Yes," Merlin said.  
"And he has not accused you before?" Gaius prompted him.  
"No," Merlin said. "Not really."  
Gaius gripped him with both hands, then. "Then there should be no need to worry," he assured him. He grinned down at him, and his face was worn.  
Merlin seemed concerned, still.  
"I don't know," he murmured. He wiped the dust from his temples. "Things seem different this time, Gaius."  
"Then we shall practice caution for a while. The same as usual. Now." Here, Gaius turned to his gruel again, and released Merlin's shoulders with a small rasp of fabric. "Have you seen my book of teas?"

* * *

**Author's comments:** FINALLY. I accidentally forgot to save, and lost a lot of changes at first xD oh deary me.

So here we are, chapter two! Hopefully I got to answer a couple of your questions. Thank you all so much for the follows and the reviews, I love you all so much -cuddles- gwahhh! You're so awesome! You've really encouraged me to keep going when I was frustrated and things.

Ah, more boots and old things and dust and ahyeahhh.

Any thoughts? Comments? Good riddles? Tips? XD Reviews make me so, so peachy! Have a wonderful Friday!


	3. Jargogle

A crumpled mop of a man loomed within the confines of Uther's chambers, skin drawn tightly over the bones of his face, so that his nose poked out of him like a sort of ruptured handle. His eyes hung between sunken hammocks of skin, and his fingers were splotched grey and brown with age. The man turned to Arthur and curled his lips back.

Arthur acknowledged the man as formally as he could manage, then turned to his father. He'd finally brought up the courage to talk to his father, and now that he'd arrived...

"Arthur," Uther addressed him. "I was about to summon you." He gestured to the older man. "We have a privileged guest."

The old man bent himself with a creak of muscle. "I am Eadwin," the man told him, as though that were a normal name. Arthur coughed. "And I have been employed under your father as a witchfinder."

When Arthur could not help but make a face, Uther endeavored to add, "as you know, Arthur, this tactic paid us no benefits before, but now I have been pressed to take on certain, less orthodox measures." He threaded his hands together behind his back, and continued; "You may be familiar with the story of the various, ah, handprints, along the tables and corridors of the castle, for example."

Arthur berated himself profusely. He should have paid more people off, should have controlled his anger, should have told Uther sooner. Arthur mumbled a noise of confirmation.

"I have been suspicious of the staff for a number of months,"-Uther was always suspicious of the staff-"and actions need to be taken to address the situation properly."

"I have no qualms with your decision," Arthur lied.

"Very good. Eadwin, have you anything to say?"

"Nay."

"And Arthur?"

"I'd very much like to retire to my chambers." He raised his chin, and turned his head so as to address his father. "Unless you need me for something more?"

Uther had a look on his face that made Arthur's skin crawl, like he knew Eadwin made him uncomfortable. Eadwin made him feel physically sick, and he clenched his fists so as to not clutch them at his stomach.

"That will be all," Uther told him, very slowly.

Arthur thanked them both, and waddled from the room.

* * *

Merlin pried the last metal clasp from Arthur's uniform. There was a sharp snap, and then a final, squeaky heave as Merlin yanked the plate away from Arthur's chest. Arthur leaned himself forward, and Merlin tugged another bunch of metal from his torso. He dumped the last touches onto the carpet, then sagged to bundle up the mess he'd made. Arthur watched him with, yawned, and then turned and made for his wardrobe.

Merlin continued to kneel beside the armor. Once he'd created a neat pile, he staggered, and pulled the metal from the floor. His footwear 'squelched', and Arthur noticed a hole on the toe of his left boot for the first time.

Arthur was surprised by Merlin's face. His hollowed-out expression made him nervous. His eyes were sunken over bags of skin, with the kind of dark underbelly that alluded to a restless sleep...

Arthur wasn't concerned, really he wasn't. His hand did start to burn a handprint through the wardrobe as he leaned against the old wood, however, and he bounced back to prevent any further damage. Arthur picked a sliver from his forefinger, and watched as Merlin turned to him.

"Anything else, sire?" he asked, and shuffled the load in his arms. His right pant leg, which had been rolled up, slid down the length of his calf.

Arthur stared at him. He allowed his hands to drop to his sides, only to raise them again and pin them behind his head. He didn't want to burn his clothes.

"You said you were worried about me," he began.

A muscle move don Merlin's face. His neckerchief was rust-colored, choked with dust. "Something like that," Merlin assured him, and scratched at his chin.

Arthur lowered his hands. "Well," he told him, seriously. "Whatever you are worried about, me or otherwise, you should stop."

Merlin frowned.

Arthur groaned. "I'm okay, Merlin, really," he continued. "There's no need to be so concerned."

Merlin only shrugged, and a metal shoulder pad toppled out of his arms. The pad clapped against the floor. Arthur groaned again. He was about to stoop and help his friend, as a gesture of some kind of apology-he was tired of Merlin's discomfort, and he wanted his friend back-when there came a rap at the door.

Merlin's head whipped up with such fervor that a muscle popped somewhere, and another plate slipped to the floor, to spin about on one side like a tossed coin. Arthur, too, turned to stare at the door. Arthur's underclothes were presentable enough, red and and black and well-washed, but he threw a robe-one draped over a side table-over his shoulders all the same. He felt Merlin's eyes on him as he moved, and the hairs along the back of his neck prickled up like the brushes of a misused comb.

Arthur groped around for the handle with sweaty fingers. He pried open the door with a nudge, and was met with the prune-shriveled face of Eadwin, nose upturned as usual so that Arthur's first glimpse of the man was down the furry burrows of his nostrils. Arthur brought up a hand to steady himself on the doorway.

"Eadwin," he said, and tapped his knuckles hard against the wood. Steam curled from his clasped fingers, and he uncurled them with a wince.

Eadwin stared up at him eagerly. "Sire," he asked; "may I examine your quarters?"

"Examine my-"

"Sorcery," Eadwin announced. He opened his colored palms and gestured around him; "sorcery everywhere. Your rooms positively reek."

"Do they," Arthur replied, and swallowed back a loud gulp. There was a smack behind him as Merlin dropped several more metal plates. They rolled about with much verve. Eadwin peered over his shoulder with his watery, beetle eyes, as Arthur felt his cheeks go red.

"Do you mind?" he asked, after a moment.

"Oh," Arthur assured him, "not at all. Nothing to hide here." He convinced himself that he needn't worry; Eadwin was probably about as much of a fraud his predecessor, and would be discredited soon enough regardless.

Arthur removed his hand, then himself, from Eadwin's way, and assumed a half-decent casual stance as Eadwin 'shlumped' his way over the threshold. His wobbly knees cracked like knuckles as he moved, and his throat bulged with the weight of his adam's apple.

Eadwin coughed once, passed his congested nostrils.

Merlin was on the floor at this point, busy with Arthur's armor. He'd already assembled a bundle again, and as he rumbled to his feet, he clenched his neck muscles.

Eadwin slugged his way onto the carpet and towards the bed. Arthur watched, nervous, as he lifted several pillows, then the sheet. Arthur suddenly thought of the pot under the bed, and then, the book under his clothes on the shelf of his wardrobe. A bead of sweat prickled his brow as Eadwin dragged the pot from beneath Arthur's bed.

"Odd," Eadwin commented, raspily.

Arthur made a small noise at the back of his throat. He didn't know what to do.

Eadwin did not say much else for a while. First, he toed at the carpet, then studied the marble tub. His search of the wardrobe occurred with practiced precision, and, of course, he unearthed Gaius' book.

Here, Eadwin did turn to Arthur. "How did this get here?" he asked.

Arthur's forehead was slick with sweat, now, and he clapped his head on his forehead as an excuse to scrape his sleeve across his brow.

"Oh," Arthur told him. He was going to have to lie, then. Oh, fun. "I haven't said anything until now, but I might as well, now that you've found the both of them."

"The both of them?"

"Yes, the pot and the book." Arthur reached over and clapped Merlin on the shoulder, whom had been positioned at his right, and the same wad of shoulder pad rolled out from beneath his grip again. Merlin tensed. "Merlin here," he assured Eadwin, "wanted to make some tea."

"Some tea," Merlin managed.

Arthur nodded. "Oh yes," he assured him. Arthur doubted anything serious would come of him using Merlin as an excuse; everyone knew he was about as sorcerer-like as a cinderblock. He stooped to nab the shoulder pad from the floor. "Very much so. He helps Gaius, our physician, out with certain, ah, potions and things, Eadwin, and so he decided to surprise me with a good old cup of tea, and he grabbed a tea book from Gaius' library."

"He helps with potions and things," Eadwin repeated.

"Oh yes," Arthur adlibbed. "Now, Merlin here," he gestured to him, "well, he's a bit of a clot."

"Oh, am I," Merlin grumbled.

"See? A clot," Arthur continued. He smacked Merlin again, this time a touch harder, on the shoulder. "So he thought he'd brew a large amount, so as to please me all the more. He came up with a big pot and that tea book there, but before he could fill the pot with water from the tub or collect the herbs he'd need, I'd arrived at my chambers. And so, this bugger here"- this was possibly the worst lie he'd ever told, Arthur conceded-"hid the pot under the bed and the book under my clothes. I saw him, of course, but I didn't want to tell him so, so as not to spoil his ploy."

"Ah," Eadwin said. His umbrella-hook of a nose was tucked between the musty pages of Gaius' herb book, and the skin of his purpled lips was drawn tight, so that his chin stood out like a beet against the rest of his face. He scratched at a birthmark on his neck. "I see. But see here, too, that there lies a spell, between these pages."

"Does there really," Arthur said, as though this were news to him.

"Oh yes," said Eadwin. He turned a page, the worn one that Arthur had propped open with his sweaty fingers, and his eyes found the runes along the left side of the page. He made a noise of confirmation, then turned his head up to Merlin, where he was stuck beneath Arthur's arm.

"You, boy," he addressed him.

Merlin gulped, and Arthur thought he felt a tremor surge up his spine from where his hand was rested on his neck. Arthur did not know why he was so nervous.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Did you really get this book from, ah," Eadwin treated his neck to a final scratch, "this Gaius fellow?"

"I, erm, I suppose so," Merlin said, when Arthur prompted him with a squeeze of the hand. "Gaius doesn't use that book, though," he emended, to Arthur's confusion. "I'm the one who makes the tea, for him and for Arthur."

Eadwin glowered at him. With a worn finger and thumb, he dog-eared the page, then clapped the book shut. A few dust particles trailed from the closed pages.

"You do, do you?" he asked, slowly.

Merlin's neck was pink. Arthur's worry doubled; he'd wanted to adlib an excuse as to why a pot and an herb book had ended up tucked beneath his bed and a pile of old clothes, not to cause his friend such discomfiture. He'd really had enough of the whole ordeal by now, anyway. Arthur opened his mouth, but Eadwin beat him to the punchline:

"Sire, I must ask that you have your servant leave the room."

Arthur relaxed, and removed his hand from Merlin's shoulder, where his palm had come to rest. He gestured him out, and Merlin bundled himself and Arthur's things away. His footsteps were heavy and uneven, made worse by the clap of his secondhand boots.

Eadwin stared at the wall for a long time.

"There's a handprint on your wardrobe," he said.

Arthur swallowed.

"And the pot beneath your bed has been touched by sorcery. There are burn marks along the edges, where fingertips met the metal."

Shit. Shit shit shit. His excuse hadn't been enough, and now Eadwin thought he was a sorcerer, oh gods. Arthur smoothed down his robe with a gentle motion. "What do you suppose that means?" he ventured, as best he could manage.

Eadwin leaned forward.

"A sorcerer frequents these quarters," he said.

"A sorcerer."

"Yes." Eadwin hefted himself upward, book still pressed between the knotted muscle of his hands. He started for the door. "I will keep this book, should you not mind, sire. I will need a while to ponder this matter with more seriousness."

Arthur nodded. "Of course."

Shit, shit, shit…

* * *

"He knows."

Gaius spilled his bowl-full of minced dried pepper all over the table and his clothes. The man grumbled something and swiped the worst of the pepper from his shirtfront, then turned to Merlin, who was flopped against the wall as though pinned there.

"Merlin," he began, slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. He has your tea book, and there's an old man that looks like a mop in his quarters."

Gaius scooped the last of the pepper dust from the table. He deposited his load into the bowels of a thin tin cup, then wiped his hands. "Go on," he prompted.

Merlin swallowed. "Arthur set me up," he said. "He had me carry up a pot to his quarters. Then he hid your tea book under a pile of clothes, and then," Merlin paused here to to press his hands to his knees, "then he called up a witchfinder to his quarters-"

"A witchfinder?"

"I'd heard rumors that one had been employed, and I wasn't really...but he was like a hound dog, Gaius. He patrolled the room and overturned every nook and cranny. Arthur had put the pot under his bed, and he found that, and the book, and Arthur told him that I had tried to make him some tea, and-"

Gaius had slowed his movements now, so that his hands hovered over the lip of the tin cup with his fingers outstretched. A few peppers lay lopsided and discarded to one side of the table.

He gestured Merlin on.

Merlin slumped forward, to occupy a chair near the table. He thumped his head against the wooden surface. "Arthur made absolute certain to tell the witchfinder that I helped you out with potions. Then the witch-hunter found runes in the tea book. Do you even have books with runes, Gaius, besides your spellbook?"

"Only the one," Gaius said, his face concerned now. "The exception being my tea book."

Merlin hoisted his head up onto his arms. "You're serious?"

"It's a harmless spell, for boiling water. Barely noticeable."

"Well, the witch-hunter noticed," Merlin reassured him. "He asked after you, so I made sure to say that I was the one to make teas, but now he suspects me and-" suddenly, he could not muster the strength to continue, and he collapsed again against the table.

"What do I do, Gaius?" he asked. "You should have seen his face…"

Gaius' muscles were so tense that he couldn't budge. The two men sat across from each other, peppers forgotten on the skin of Gaius' hand and along his shirtfront. "Merlin," he said, steadily. "Are you absolutely sure that what Arthur did was purposeful?"

"He set me up, Gaius," Merlin said, again. "He called a damn witchfinder up to his quarters to catch me with an apparent potions book and a brewing pot."

"Merlin."

"Why else would he have sent me up to his chambers with a pot of water? Why else would he have taken and poorly-hidden your tea book, the only book on your person with any sort of runes?"

"Yes, yes, I see," Gaius conceded, and the table creaked under the weight of his arms as he leaned forward, "but we ought to consider, Merlin, as to why Arthur would want to conduct such an elaborate scheme? His… 'setup' was rather odd, and surely such a strange tactic would only call attention to himself and his actions. Why would he not go to his father directly, and oust you that way?"

"Because he's sadistic? Because he likes to see me struggle?" Merlin guessed. He slapped the table. "I don't know, Gaius. But why else would he have done any of this? It doesn't make any sense."

"Perhaps you ought to ask him."

"Ask him? I can't-"

"Yes," Gaius assured him. "You can. Arthur told you that he wanted to talk about sorcery some time ago. Perhaps he'll hold himself to his own word." Here, a few spots of pepper trailed down his front, and he dusted them away angrily. "You have every right to ask about something Arthur broached himself," he continued. "So ask, Merlin. As carefully as you can."

* * *

The hallway was dark, and cool. Eadwin was awake, nose buried between the musty parchment paper Gaius' tea book-Arthur had passed his rooms-but the rest of the castle was asleep, curled under their heavy wool comforters. Arthur had been unable to sleep. His body was hot and sweaty, and he worried that should he lay against the same spot of fabric for too long, the sheets around him would combust.

Arthur knew that Eadwin was stupid enough to try and expose him as a sorcerer. As to whether or not Arthur could convince everyone otherwise, he was not so certain.

Several times, Arthur heaved himself around to start for his father's quarters, only to turn about-face again and start for the opposite end of the castle. What was so hard, he demanded of himself, about talking to his father? All he had to do was admit to him that he'd been possessed, right?

Perhaps what stopped him each time, so surely, was his own uncertainty. Arthur did not feel possessed. He felt confused, and-well, yes, scared. And angry at himself, and his father, and he wasn't sure why.

What had really made him dry heave, when he'd made that water boil, was not how depraved he had felt, but how…

Wonderful. How…wonderful he had felt with himself afterward. The warmth that rumbled up his stomach, the heat that soothed his sore muscles. He'd felt so natural, so calm. So Arthur Pendragon-y.

How could that have been a result of possession?

Somehow, Arthur was unsurprised when he registered the all-too-familiar 'clip clop' of old boots over the throb of his thoughts, and he looked up.

Merlin acknowledged him with a small motion. His eyes were no better, nor his posture.

"Have you gotten any sleep?" Arthur demanded of him, though gently. When Merlin only shrugged, he heaved himself forward and stood before him.

A few moths clustered around the candle Merlin had brought with him, slumped over on a saucer between his hands. A bundle of the moths teetered off the plate, a collection of beige and brown. Arthur watched them for a moment.

"So," Merlin said. His nightclothes were dull and cream-colored. He lowered the plate. "You wanted to talk to me? A while ago, I mean."

"Yes," said Arthur.

Merlin looked at him. "All right then," he prompted.

"About sorcery."

"More or less."

Arthur wrenched his hand around through his lint-filled pockets. He thought about how to word this. Arthur didn't want to come right out with his situation, so he responded with subtlety;

"A few weeks ago, I...came to a realization."

Merlin's frown deepened. Arthur took a moment to stare at him, then turned his head down and continued. "I… didn't know what to do."

"How long have you known?" Merlin asked of him, slowly. Arthur craned his head up to look at him again. He realized, now, that Merlin must have puzzled out Arthur's odd condition weeks ago. He might have been a clot, but Merlin would have seen Arthur's collection of burned prints nonetheless. That would have explained his fear of Arthur's proximity, and his unusual behavior, as well.

Arthur shook his head. "I don't know," he said, in response to his question. "I definitely found out a couple weeks ago, but, really, I think I've always known. One way or another."

"You have?" Merlin murmured. The candlelight caused his face to glow, and a moth scurried across a wad of cooled candle wax near his thumb. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

"I don't know," Arthur said again. Then, "I guess I didn't want things to change. And, well, you know how my father treats...sorcerers." Here, Merlin tensed. "I'd been taught, ever since I was born, that sorcery was something sinful, something to be ashamed about. I didn't want to accept… the reality of the situation."

Merlin swallowed loudly.

"Will you tell Uther, then?" he asked. "Or… have you already?"

"I haven't," Arthur said. "I couldn't bring myself to."

"What about that, ah-"

"Eadwin?"

"Yes. Him."

Arthur grumbled something and tucked up his sleeves. "He knows, I'm sure. I shouldn't have let him search my quarters, but otherwise he would have become even more suspicious."

"You certainly didn't make him any less so."

"I didn't know what I was doing," Arthur told him, with a groan. That was something he had never said before, he realized. "I should have known that the lie wouldn't do any good."

They stood like that, after Arthur's comment, for a long time. A nub of wax dripped from the candle on his saucer. Merlin's eyes were dull, still, and blackened.

A moth trailed up the length of Arthur's arm, and he did not shoo the thing away for a while. He watched the creature crawl along the expanse of fabric that draped his upper torso, and felt nervous, to say the least. His gut was knotted up and nausea surged against the meat of his stomach.

Finally, Merlin asked, "what should I do, Arthur?"

Arthur felt something well up within him at Merlin's tone; something warm and heady. He wanted, suddenly, to press himself closer to him, reassure him with a gesture of kindness, but he couldn't seem to bring his boots up from the floor.

He raised his chin. He didn't know. He really didn't know.

"Don't change?" he suggested, because that was all that he really wanted between them right now.

Merlin looked at him.

"Okay," Merlin managed. As Arthur turned away, he asked, "where are you going?"

"To my chambers," Arthur said. He felt woozy, his head heavy. He knew he wouldn't sleep, but he had to get away from Merlin before he did something stupid.

Merlin called after him: "will you explain more to me later? About the book, and the pot-?"

"Tomorrow," Arthur assured him, over his shoulder.

He felt Merlin's presence melt away, and squared his shoulders as he started for his chambers.

* * *

"You talked to him?"

"Yes."

"And you were right?"

"Yes. He did know. He's known for at least two weeks."

Gaius stared up at Merlin, from where he lay extended over the rumpled surface of his bed, tangled up between moth-eaten blankets. He squinted up at Merlin through his poor eyes, then rubbed one with the back of an aged hand. Merlin had woken him but moments before to share the news, and sleep still slowed his movements. He seemed calm enough, but his tone was low as he grasped Merlin by the sleeve of his coat.

"What else did he say?" he managed, fingers taught.

Merlin shut his eyes, then peeled them open again. He was exhausted. "He said that he tried to talk to Uther," he mumbled, "but he couldn't bring himself to."

Gaius slumped against his pillow, so as to communicate his relief.

"Surely that's a good thing," he said, at Merlin's doubtful expression.

Merlin only stood there, beside his bed. "He still tried, Gaius," he reminded him. "And he said that he'd been wrong to lie about me and the pot and the book, but-"

"Arthur told you that he was wrong?" Gaius repeated, dumbstruck. At this, he wrinkled up his brow, and set his mouth. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Then surely, Merlin, he must be truthful. Arthur would never have admitted to something as 'serious' as being wrong unless he were being completely candid…"

"Candid about what?"

"About everything," Gaius told him, urgently. "Merlin. If Arthur still trusts you with what he told you, even after he'd learned of you being a sorcerer, and still asked you to...did you not say he asked to you stay as you were?"

Merlin nodded sleepily down at him, and Gaius assured him, "He still wants to rely on you, Merlin. He'd still have you, as yourself, regardless. I'm sure nothing wrong can come of that."

* * *

Ermergerd, sorry this took so long to update xD ughhhh school. I'm still behind on shtuff. Oh well! Aha, moth and light symbolism, yum yum.

Happy Sunday, everyone! Reviews are wonderful, as always, and I really appreciate all the feedback you've already posted... there were so many things I needed to edit! You're all great, thank you so much.


	4. Pauciloquent

First: oh my goodness gracious, guys, I am so, so sorry for the delay! School has been crazy and ugh, that's really no excuse, but-fdsfda. I'll make sure to get the next chapter out at a much more reasonable time. Thank you so much for all of your reviews and favorites and follows and GOODNESS. You are all perfect and I love you. X'D

* * *

Arthur was ready when his father called for a council meeting. Or at least, that was what he told himself, as he hurried down to the throne room with his hands hot and his stomach a-rumble. Arthur clenched his fists before he opened the door. He had to remember to control his nervousness, or he was going to burn a hole through something.

Eadwin was there, of course. He'd come to understand his situation since his last appearance, Arthur was sure, and as he turned his beetle-y eyes to him Arthur felt his stomach clench.

Uther was seated plumply on his throne, legs spread and fingers knotted around the sides of his chair.

Several guards popped through the door behind him like worried sock puppets, and were accompanied by a crowd of ordinary staff members. They must have smelled a good bit of gossip. Uther was never one to turn the nosy people away. He liked to have an appreciative audience, particularly when he was about to do something dramatic...

Merlin fumbled through the door behind a horde of young ladies, his eyelids heavy and his clothes mussed as though he'd been yanked from bed moments before. Arthur would have berated him, should their circumstances have been different.

The young ladies were dressed casually. A cook walked by, and slapped his meaty hands together, to rid bouts of sugar from his dough-crusted palms.

The crowd rumbled about for a while, as Uther and Eadwin debated something at the front of the room. Eadwin's shoulder blades popped out from behind him where he stood like plate halves. He was hunched over Uther, and Arthur turned away. Merlin was at his side, now, although he looked like a kicked cocker spaniel and wasn't much for emotional support.

Uther raised his hand, and the noise eased, then dropped out.

Arthur was at the head of the assembly of guests, Merlin at his shoulder.

Arthur really didn't know how he was going to get out of this. His hands sweated at his sides.

Eadwin was slow with his motions, but when he did lift his hand, his motions were precise, calculated. A warped index finger poked from the knot of the rest, to point with deliberateness at Arthur. The old crone opened his mouth, and said,

"Step forward, boy."

The crowd shuffled confusedly behind him. There were mumbles. Arthur's muscles were rigid, so that his legs refused to bend for him. He managed to boot himself forward, but before he could advance more than the barest of toe-lengths, Merlin had stepped ahead of him, and suddenly, Arthur realized…

Eadwin's finger was not trained on Arthur, but a few, very significant degrees to his right.

"You, boy," Eadwin demanded, at Merlin. His adam's apple bobbed. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Merlin's fear was tangible. He forced his chapped lips open and said, "I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

"Don't you, though."

"Eadwin," Uther reminded the older man, and his tone communicated his mistrust. "You told me that you'd happened on our sorcerer."

"Ah, yes," Eadwin said. He gestured again. Merlin stood rigid as the old man poked his way to and fro, this way and that.

"Merlin's not a sorcerer," Arthur said. His tongue had peeled away from the roof of his mouth. "I would know. Regardless, he was accused of a similar offense some time ago, by the likes of a sorcerer." Arthur raised an eyebrow… "Forgive me, but I can't help but find your logic at fault, Eadwin."

Uther had a doubtful look on his face, too, which caused Arthur to feel a twinge of relief. Eadwin was not finished, however: "I suggest," he huffed, "to quell your suspicions, that we escort the boy to your rooms, sire."

"To my rooms?"

"A handprint, of good quality, rests on the edge of your wardrobe, sire," Eadwin reminded him. He'd used his most crotchety of tones. "Compare his hand to that which sits there, and you will have your answer."

Well, then.

"All right," Uther agreed, at a slow speed. "Escort this 'sorcerer' to Arthur's chambers." He stood with a certain, kingly deliberateness, and started for the door. He seemed rather tired with the whole affair, reduced to a wimpy sort of stupor. He'd probably hoped to have ousted a member of the staff by now, and to have had such a lowly person as Merlin denounced to him, yet again, must have been a letdown. He'd done this before, after all…

Merlin, however, was rigid. He tried to make his discomfort discreet, but Arthur knew him too well to be fooled by him. The set of his shoulders, the way he held himself as he moved…he seemed frightened, still, and confused. Arthur couldn't ask why, however, and they proceeded together down the hall without a word.

The collection of castle staff tumbled after them as they marched down the corridors, all huddled together, a-bustle with murmurs and the raspy hiss of fabric. Merlin's boots, which were by this point the equivalent of papery sacks, were the only real noise. They "clumped" and "clomped" like a dead cat being tossed again and again at the floor.

Arthur wanted to strangle something, he was so anxious. He held his chin up, though. Unlike Merlin, he was very good at not being scared.

The wardrobe was an old, sturdy thing, which housed Arthur's collection of paraphernalia as well as his clothes… Merlin tried to keep the thing tidy, but Arthur would routinely stuff the shelves with random artifacts and doodads and whatnot so as to get a rise out of him. He did like to argue with Merlin. The clothes were half-sorted out now, a couple piled at the bottom of the wardrobe. They had no need to open the thing; the handprint was on the side.

The crowd congregated around the bit of furniture and Arthur crossed his arms over his chest.

"Go ahead," Uther heaved out, his eyes half-lidded with boredom. He drummed his fingers along the crevice of his arm. Eadwin prompted Merlin to step forward, and Merlin treated him to a confused look. He did so, finally, although not without a random clench of the fists.

Merlin pressed his hand against the print, his motions weary but defiant. His fingers were too small to fit the print, too elongated at the ends. What a surprise.

"Well," said Arthur, before Eadwin could open his mouth. He didn't really know where to go with the statement, so, with all his maturity, he chose to shrug his shoulders. Merlin propped himself away from the wardrobe, and the crowd grumbled amongst themselves.

"We are still in possession of the print," Eadwin argued, almost to himself. Uther had his hands flat against his temples. "Surely we can run the castle staff through the room and have each place their hand-"

"The results of such a method would be… ambiguous, to say the least…"

"We would narrow down our options." Eadwin squinted up his eyes, neck flab apparent as he lurched to his left, so as to pucker his face at Merlin. "As for this…suspicious character," he grumbled, "I am not yet convinced of his credulity."

Merlin looked as though he very much wanted to stick out his tongue.

"Eadwin, for all his folly, has a valid point," Uther managed, after some time. He turned to address the crowd. "Each of you, form a row on this side of the room. Yes, this side… do summon the others, Gladmere…"

Uther was, once again, provided with a purpose as a man of dramatics, and he loitered about with an aloof sort of demeanor as men and women were tugged passed the wardrobe. Merlin was beside Arthur again, although the color of a parsnip.

"Merlin," he said, as a kitchen staffer struck her hand against the wood of the wardrobe, "what on Earth has gotten into you?"

"You know very well," Merlin hissed back, so as not to be heard by their fellows. Eadwin had sharp ears for an old mop, for example. "Eadwin still thinks I'm a sorcerer, Arthur."

"Yes. Well." Arthur pursed his lips. "He's already been discredited for his assertions…"

"Not entirely." He paused. "Should I have a toad come out of his throat or something, like the last time?"

"Have a-what?"

"A toad. Or maybe a newt…"

"Very funny," Arthur grumbled. He scratched his nose. "I'm honestly concerned with this… test thing that he's up to now. Someone's going to have a print similar to mine, eventually, and then I don't know what I'll do."

"A print similar to yours?"

"Yes, Merlin. Or, what, you did know about those prints, didn't you? That was how you found out."

"Found out what?"

"Oh, for god's sake, Merlin. We talked about this last night. Are you really so dense to have forgotten already, or did you obtain some kind of concussion since then? Or perhaps a few too many sips of mead?"

Merlin's expression was that of such blatant confusion that Arthur could not help but feel that there had been some kind of miscommunication between the two of them, and he bunched up the muscles of his hand. "Merlin," he churned out, slowly. "Sometimes I wonder how you manage to perform the most basic of physical functions."

"I'm a sorcerer," Merlin said.

"What?"

"I remember." He crunched up his eyebrows. "That's what we talked about. I'm a sorcerer."

"Like hell you are, you hungover nut." Arthur brought his palm down his face, to massage the dark skin under his eyes. Merlin's boots only scraped against the wood of the floorboards. "Do you remember-honestly-anything. From last night."

Merlin's face was all skewed up under the weight of his eyebrows… he was so obviously confused that Arthur could not help but clap a hand on his shoulder with an exasperated, but genuine, resignation. Merlin didn't remember what they'd talked about. Fine. It wasn't as though Arthur had any reason to be discouraged. He'd been tired and conflicted, himself, and hadn't been thinking clearly… he shouldn't have tried to tell Merlin, or anyone, about his condition at all. He ought to be glad that, for whatever reason, Merlin had forgotten about their conversation at large… although, Merlin hadn't seemed at all drunk throughout their conversation. Perhaps he'd gone and guzzled a couple pints after their chat, or something of the sort. Such things weren't unheard of. There had to be a rational reason for Merlin's… blatant confusion, anyway.

Eadwin had slugged closer to the two of them, and Arthur could not confidently continue their conversation, so he turned himself to face the wardrobe and the crowd of men and women at its front. Eadwin smelled of bruised prunes. At this proximity, you could almost taste the distain of his expression, feel the bristle of his caterpillar eyebrows. The old man raised a hand and picked the gunk from his tear ducts. Arthur's nerves caused his hands to clench again, but he fought down the heat that wanted to spill through his fingertips.

Slowly, the crowd thinned, then bloated out again as more men and women were escorted through the door to Arthur's rooms. Arthur's hands were roundish… gentle, yes, but burly, skin made thick by a build up of callouses. His fingers were rather short. As of yet, no one's hand had matched of size or shape, for which he was lucky…

Things did tend to go wrong a lot for Arthur, however, and this time was no exception.

"Aha," Eadwin announced, and Arthur looked up. There was a pale-faced lad at the foot of the wardrobe, eyes wide and round as Eadwin advanced on him. "Looks as though we've found our first suspect, m'lord."

Arthur could not help but stare. The boy's hands were of the same size and shape of his… Arthur had never seen him before, but when he turned to Merlin, there was a look of recognition on his face.

"Arthur," he managed.

And suddenly, Arthur remembered. George, that was his name. He had a heavy chin and a small nose… he had a brass sort of character. On occasions when Merlin hadn't been available, George had acted as Arthur's valet, and tended to his royal sheets and floors and his other stupid chores. He was polite, aloof, and sometimes boisterous… normally, anyway. Right now, he looked as though he wanted very much to meld with the floor.

"Arthur," Merlin said again. George was heaved to one side, and forced to sit. Eadwin questioned him furiously, but George couldn't seem to open his mouth… the staff continued to pass the wardrobe, thump their palms against the print on the wood, and Arthur began to wonder how many of his people would be blamed for his own offense…

"Ask Eadwin to put his hand on the print," Merlin demanded suddenly.

Arthur pursed his lips, confused. "What?" he asked.

"I said," Merlin repeated, "ask Eadwin to put his hand on the print."

"Why? His hand won't fit." He paused. "Oh, and I resent that order-y tone."

"Arthur," Merlin managed. His eyes were dull. "Please."

"Are you about to do something stupid?"

"What?"

"You get that look on your face. That resigned look. When you're about to do something stupid."

There was a pause between them. George had curled his hands up to his face, and although Arthur couldn't make out his words, he knew that they would be of no use to him…

"So, are you?" Arthur said. "Going to do something stupid, I mean."

"Oh, very," Merlin assured him, glumly.

Arthur glared at him, and his stomach clenched…

"You owe me," Arthur ground out, like pepper from an unwieldy shaker, "a colossal favor." And with that, he clapped his heels together, brought his hands together, wrung them once, and announced to the congregation, "a moment, please, everyone."

There was a rumble of words, the collective murmurs of a crowd. Uther turned with his usual glower, obviously displeased that Arthur had decided to interrupt their proceedings. Eadwin, too, turned to him with a squeak like a bad mattress, and George brought his head up to stare at him through saucer-wide eyes.

"I'd like to ask that Eadwin be so kind as to place his own hand on the print," he said.

Uther fixed him with a look.

"My hands," said Eadwin, from across the room, "are no where near the size of the print on the wardrobe, sire."

"We won't know for sure until we try, though, surely?" Arthur ventured.

Eadwin narrowed his beetle eyes.

Uther massaged the bridge of his nose. "Arthur has every right to ask this of you," he began, slowly. "You may as well prove your innocence, Eadwin."

"I don't see why not," Eadwin sniffed. He bowed, stiffly, and released his fingers from the front of George's tunic to lurch towards the wardrobe. Arthur pretended to watch his advance, attention devoted to his valet as Merlin bunched up his hands at his side. There was a very concentrated look on his face…  
And then the atmosphere changed. The air was crowded, suddenly, condensed like clam chowder and heavy with spice, so that Arthur felt his nose twitch with the urge to sneeze. Arthur felt a particular tickle up his spine, one that was strangely familiar… Eadwin placed his hand on the print, and there was a sharp 'shup' noise like a suction cup…

…And Eadwin's hand fit solidly against the print. With George, there had been room for doubt, but Eadwin's hand was, without question and against all odds, the perfect fit. A panic filled Eadwin's dark eyes, and he yanked his hand back as though stung. Arthur felt something grip at his chest, a kind of realization, and as he turned his head from Eadwin to Merlin, he saw a sheen of gold slip from Merlin's eyes as he lowered his hand, the one he'd extended before him slightly… saw his lips come closed, as though he'd only just said something…

"There's been a mistake," Eadwin announced. He'd brought his hand to his chest, the muscles of his arms taught. He gestured wildly to the wardrobe, and the veins throbbed along his inner arm. "You saw… you saw my hand, you saw the difference… there was absolutely-"

"Eadwin," Uther said, calmly, but with all his usual authority, "I suggest that you remain level-headed, and allow us to sit you beside that boy there as a potential suspect…"

But Eadwin would not be swayed. "I will not stand for this," he snarled. His curved body heaved to one side, his flabby cane-hook of a nose all a-waggle as he moved. The old man stared at Merlin with vehemence, then thrust himself forward suddenly. Eadwin had Merlin pinned against the wall behind them before Arthur could open his mouth, gnarled fingers tight and purple where he dug them into the flesh of his friend's arms. "This was your doing," he spat, and Merlin stared at him with wide eyes, "this was your doing. You may fool these cretins, but you'll never fool me, you sinful thing, you stain… how dare you soil this place with your filthy presence, how dare you stoop to… to harm the likes of me, how dare you-!"

"Oh, gods, he's psychotic," Uther complained, from across the room. He yanked off his gloves. "I should have known this was a waste of my time. Guards, escort this fool to-"

Eadwin wasn't done, however. "Can't you see?" he demanded, so that Uther stopped mid-sentence to glare at him. Eadwin heaved out a laugh, one of those old-men laughs that no one under the age of seventy-five can pull off. "Can't any of you bloody twits see what's right in front of your eyes?" Arthur had him from behind, now, and he dragged him bodily from Merlin with a none-too-gentle touch. Eadwin flapped at him angrily like a disgruntled walrus. "He's a sorcerer! Can't you feel the pulse of his magic, smell his putrid stench?" Uther had turned and started out of the room, and he called after him; "you're all fools! All of you! You're wrong, you'll see, you'll see that I'm right…"

Arthur continued to wrench the man to his left, until broad hands found Eadwin's arms and hauled him from his grip. Arthur handed the old man off with a look of disgust on his face. George, from beside the wardrobe, stared, seemingly too stunned to move. His shoulders were up to his ears, kind of like how Merlin's were…

Merlin.

Arthur turned himself around, as a wordy Eadwin was forcibly removed from his quarters. Uther, from down the hall, could be heard over the hum of the crowd…

Merlin was gone. 


End file.
